


Things She Said While You Were Driving

by AccidentalAccount



Series: You Said/She Said [4]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Chloe POV, F/F, angst with brief fluff, haha more angst, this is how it'll be for a while
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccidentalAccount/pseuds/AccidentalAccount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'll deal with it later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things She Said While You Were Driving

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit guys this is the longest thing I've written in a while. I feel Accomplished. Maybe the next one will be longer. Who knows?!
> 
> Thank you all very much for your continued feedback and support. It is my sustenance as a creative being.
> 
> As always, tumblr is PA-Writes.

Something hums under your skin as you wind through Seattle's downtown with Max's direction, neon lighting up the cabin of your shitty truck. Anticipation, maybe. God knows how many times you've imagined coming here, even at your worst, even when you thought you hated Max. No, you feel too sick for it to be anticipation. Maybe—no, you decide, shoving the feeling down. You're not going to analyze yourself while driving, especially not in a new place. You need to be focused on the road.

"Turn here," Max says, just barely audible over the engine. You make the turn, ignoring the emptiness in her voice. You'll deal with it later. You need to be focused on the road.

Which is extremely difficult with your skin crawling and your stomach deciding maybe it wants to trade places with your liver. God, you would kill for some weed.

A horn blares to your left. Your hands jerk automatically, sending your tuck juddering back into your lane. The buzz beneath your skin intensifies and sweat breaks out on the back of your neck.

Oh. You're scared.

You repress this realization not a second after you make it, biting your cheek and concentrating on the car in front of you. Not now, not now. You'll deal with it later.

A red light halts your now-creeping progress, and your eyes stick on the street sign.

"Max," you say softly, tightly, frustration and f—not fear, something else, bitter on your tongue. "Why are we going in circles?"

Max's special brand of guilty silence radiates from the other side of the cabin. The light turns green, so you make the same turn you've made the last seven times and crawl along at a snail's pace.

People pass you, honking, and Max stays quiet.

Your fingers tighten on the steering wheel. So now she's just going to fucking ignore you. Awesome.

"Max," you try again, harsher, because she's not the one who...You bite your cheek again, hard. This isn't the time for that. Later. You'll deal with it later.

She makes a little breathy noise that could be a sob, and you instantly feel like shit.

Another red light, and you look over at her. Max isn't crying, but she's breathing like she's trying not to and wilted, head hung and shoulders slumped, fingers curled loosely into her jacket sleeve.

"Sorry," you bite out, angry for the waste of gas and for being lied to and for having so little control over yourself you've once again upset Max. You grip the steering wheel hard and chew your cheek. "Sorry," you repeat quietly, turning back to the road.

The guilty silence is yours, this time.

Max coughs a little, then: "Yesler Terrace."

You steal a glance at her. "Hm?"

"That's...Just keep on this road. I'll say when you need to turn. It's, um…" She trails off, picking at her sleeve and biting her lip.

"Got it," you say just as the light blinks back to green.

The neon downtown slowly gives way to a pretty regular-looking street, lined with yellowed street lights. The thing you refuse to acknowledge coils tighter and trembles in your hands.

"I'm scared."

You almost don't hear her. You think maybe she's hoping you didn't. Frozen, you try to decide if she wants you to say something or wait for her to elaborate. It's been hard to tell ever since the Vortex party, when she was crying and begging and looking at you with thousand-year-old eyes, too old and too weary for her face. The torn picture burns a hole in your breast pocket, and you wish  _you_  could rewind and take away all the things that have aged Max so much.

"I'm scared," Max continues haltingly, "that my parents won't recognize me. That they won't know who I am anymore." Her voice wavers at the end and she's looking down at her hand.

Your gut lurches. You don't know what to say; the difference between this Max and the one that got into your truck on Monday is enormous. It was pure fucking luck you said the right thing in the motel, then you went and fucked that up in the field. Jesus, what are you  _supposed_  to say? You could lie, you suppose. Tell her that she hasn't changed all that much, that of course her parents will still see their little girl, and the problem's fixed, right?

She meets your eyes when you look at her and ice slides down your spine. Max has always had doe eyes, wide and bright and curious, wanting to know everything about anything and catching all the tiny things everyone else missed. This thing next to you wearing Max's face has the eyes of a predator, old and flat and sharp, still picking up on the little things people miss, but for entirely different reasons.

It scares the shit out of you. The only thing that keeps you convinced this thing is still Max is the softness around her edges, the way she giggled in the grass and the way she clung to you in the motel and the way she slumped against the window to sleep, leaving little streaks of drool on the glass.

You check the road, then look back at her and find her eyes downcast, fingers tugging at loose threads on her sleeves. Max's mouth twitches into a frown. Her jaw quivers.

"Max," you start, then pause, tapping your nails on the steering wheel. "Max, you know they'll love you no matter what, right?"

She sniffles and tilts her head to listen better.

"Because they will," you continue carefully. "What you've see doesn't make you who you are. You've seen some pretty fucked up shit—" Rachel, Nathan, Jefferson flash through your mind "—but that doesn't mean it's your fault. That doesn't mean you've failed. It's just...Chaos theory. Strange attractors and bad shit. It doesn't matter that you were the butt of this horrible cosmic joke and it's really fucked with your head; your parents aren't going to stop loving you. And—" You bite down on the words before they get out, thinking fast to come up with a replacement. "—and you're Max  _fucking_  Caulfield, and you always will be."

She laughs, weak and watery, and she tells you to turn left at the next intersection.

Her hand covers yours on the gearshift, warm and so very Max and for absolutely no reason agitating the fear humming under your skin.

The words you were going to say sit heavy on your tongue. You realize why you're scared.

_And I won't stop loving you, either._


End file.
